Into White Silence

by Anthony Eaton

  George no better, probably a little worse. We managed to brew up a weak tea this morning and he was able to get a little of this down, but it brought about no improvement. His cough continues to worsen and he is terribly weak, now. As are most of us – the limited rations of the last few days are certainly taking their toll.

  10th June, 1922

  Bloody blizzard still howling outside. Lost Captain Smythe-Davis during the night, and Stanley O’Hanlon was nowhere to be found when we stirred ourselves this morning. We have laid out the Captain in the forecastle, until such time as we can get out from the ship and give him a decent burial.

  It fell to me to inform Mr Rourke of these developments and when I knocked on his cabin door, I received no immediate response. Concerned, I attempted to open it but found it locked. I was about to fetch Mr Ryan to assist me in breaking it down, when all of a sudden it was thrown wide.

  It has been several days since I have laid eyes on our Leader – he hasn’t emerged once since the start of this storm, even for meals. His appearance was alarming – his hair mussed and unkempt and his beard, usually so neatly maintained, even during the worst moments of our journey, was knotted and wild. For several seconds he had to stare at me until he registered who I was, and then, to my great amazement, he greeted me effusively, grasping my hand in that iron grip of his and drawing me into the foul fug of his tiny cabin, almost against my will.

  ‘Downes! Excellent, man! Come here! Look!’ he commanded, pointing at a large chart which he’d unrolled upon his tiny desk. Then, incredibly, he clapped me on the shoulder and proclaimed; ‘We can still do it!’

  By now, I had had time to take in the chart, the same one which he had shown me during my initial interview with him, all those months ago in Hobart. It was now heavily annotated and scored with lines and numbers and comments. I enquired, cautiously, because it seemed quite clear to me that Rourke had finally surrendered his last vestiges of sanity, exactly what it was that we could ‘still do’, and in response he looked at me as though I were the mad one,

  ‘Why, the pole, you fool! The pole!’

  At that, he began to babble; a wild torrent of words poured from him and I was barely able to make cogent sense of any of them, apart from being able to discern that he had put together some mad scheme to hike across the sea ice, dragging as much as we could carry with us on sledges and then hit out for the Pole at the start of summer, on foot.

  For some minutes I let him talk, while I came to a decision as to what steps to take. In the end, I muttered some pleasantries along the lines of being pleased to consider his idea, then left him there with his chart and went to seek out Mr Ryan.

  The bosun listened without a word while I related my conversation with Rourke, and when I’d finished, he asked, ‘So he’s lost his marbles, then?’ and I replied that this was indeed my assessment of the situation.

  At that, Ryan nodded, thoughtfully, and told me he’d ‘have a think about things’, and that we’d talk later today.

  11th June, 1922

  Sometime during the dark hours of the afternoon, during a brief lull in the storm, we woke from our afternoon sleep to discover that Ryan had disappeared, along with Tom Walsh, Danny Carston and Dave Lacey. They’d taken with them all of our remaining supply of thawed tinned meat, the last two working sledges, two lamps, most of our remaining thawed kerosene, four rifles and ammunition.

  The moment we realised their absence I set off after them with Alex and Joe Smith. The sledges had left clear tracks in the snow for us to follow, and as they were burdened with their load and without much of a start, it took us only half an hour or so to catch them up. Once they realised that they were being pursued, however, the four men stopped and held their ground, using the rifles to keep us distant.

  Ryan ordered us to ‘bugger off and die’ and drove the point home by firing a couple of shots over our heads, before warning us that he would ‘aim the next one a damn sight lower’. I had no doubt that he would.

  With little alternative, and with the weather closing in again, there was nothing for it but to let them go. The last we saw they were making south across the ice towards the continent and quickly disappeared into the dark.

  Back at the ship, we took stock of our remaining supplies and used the slightly milder weather to block up the funnel hole again, so that we might attempt to get the large stove re-lit. It would appear, though, that the blizzard has filled the chimney with ice, and so we have had little success.

  The ship feels terribly empty now; aside from myself, the only men remaining aboard are Mr Rourke, Alex Holdsworthy, Doug King, Sam Piper, Pete Grace, Henry Griffith, James Armitage and Art Beale. All of us are weak from hunger and thirst, and James and Henry are both quite ill, with symptoms that suggest to me they might be suffering from pneumonia. Additionally, Doug’s frostbitten hands have continued to deteriorate and are now stricken with gangrene, against which he has been fighting an increasingly losing battle.

  All those who were bunked in the ’tween deck have now shifted into the wardroom cabins and, unless we have a change in fortune soon, I imagine these will become our graves.

  14th June, 1922

  After twenty-four comatose hours, Doug King finally passed away this morning, without regaining consciousness. Alex and I laid him out beside George in the forepeak; neither of us have the strength left in us to dig a proper grave on the ice.

  The blizzard finally lifted this afternoon and we emerged from the ship at midday, just in time to catch a last glimpse of sunset – nothing more than a long, red smear across the horizon to the north-west, which for a few moments painted the entire icepack a bloody crimson.

  As it faded, and we were left with only a dim and washed out aurora in the south, Sam, Pete and Arthur came and informed me that they were hitting out for the coast immediately, and that I was welcome to join them, if I wished. Alex had already declined their offer, stating instead that he would remain aboard the Raven to tend to Henry and James, who are now too weak to be of any use, and I declared that I too would remain behind. Depending upon how things resolve themselves here, Alex and I organised with the other three that, should we find ourselves in a position to attempt it, we would try and locate them on the coast in a fortnight’s time.

  This they agreed to and, after provisioning themselves as best they could, we all went out to the ice beside the ship. Alex and I shook their hands, wished them the best of luck, and without any further fuss they set off for the south. Whether they will make it or not I have no idea, but I can only hope so.

  Back in the wardroom, Alex and I played chess and managed to thaw enough tinned food to make up a reasonable hash. I went and banged on Rourke’s cabin door for several minutes, not expecting any response, but was greeted only with muffled cursing. We left a plate of food beside the door and, after checking on James and Henry, we both turned in.

  16th June, 1922

  A glorious aurora this afternoon. Our days and nights have blended into one continuous evening, now, and with no functioning timepiece remaining, it is impossible to know for certain what the time actually is at any given moment. Alex and I eat when we are hungry, sleep when we are weary, and the rest of the time play chess and tend to our patients.

  Rourke emerged from his cabin briefly this afternoon, an emaciated wreck of a man. He seemed slightly startled to find the ship so deserted and asked after George Smythe-Davis and Dick Ryan several times before returning to his dark little room. Neither Alex nor myself had the energy or wherewithal to even attempt to engage him any further than that …

  17th June (?), 1922

  James died some time last night, while Alex and I slept. We laid him out in the forepeak, which has now become our morgue.

  20th June (?), 1922

  Woke up from a deep slumber at some point – no idea whether it was day or night – but thought I’d heard something moving up on deck. Alex was still fast asleep in his bunk and Henry in no fit condition to go anywhere, so I t
ook myself up to investigate and I emerged from the companionway to discover a shadowy figure attempting to batter his way into the nailed-shut deckhouse, presumably to get at the stores inside.

  He was so intent on his burglary that at first he didn’t notice me approaching, and I was able to get a good look at his back. His parka and pants were ragged and filthy with soot, and his sheepskin mittens barely recognisable for what they were. He was beating at the door in desperation but to little effect. As soon as I drew close enough, I reached out and touched him lightly on his left shoulder, not wanting to startle him and hoping to be able to speak with him and offer him some supplies.

  I never had an opportunity, because the moment my hand made contact with the greasy surface of his clothing, he spun and lunged at me violently, throwing me backwards so that I stumbled on the icy deck and struck my head a glancing blow against a pin rail. This dazed me for some moments and, by the time I had recovered my wits sufficiently to rise, the man had vanished, leaving only a set of footprints trailing away to the north-east.

  After this, I returned to the hold and retrieved a dozen frozen tins of sardines and several of canned vegetables, and left these at the base of the gangplank, along with a brief note to the effect that he’d be welcome back aboard the ship, at any time he chose.

  22nd June (?), 1922

  Last night Alex and I stayed awake for some hours, keeping vigil beside Henry’s bunk while his condition steadily deteriorated. He fell unconscious late yesterday, and all we could think to do for him was to remain alert, on the off-chance that he might wake up again.

  While we waited, we spoke of all sorts of things – our families and our pasts. Alex talked at length of the chain of events that led to his interest in science, and the reasons he accepted his position with Rourke, despite not being at all the adventurous type.

  When we had exhausted all topics of conversation, and when it appeared that Henry’s condition might have improved slightly, I declared my intention to sleep for a few hours and Alex said that he planned to stroll around the ship for a few minutes before turning in himself, and so we bid each other goodnight.

  I slept like a dead man, and was surprised when I woke to find Alex absent, his bunk cold and unruffled. I searched the ship, but did not find him anywhere aboard, then turned my attention to the ice, but the long spell of clear weather has frozen the snow hard, and there were no tracks to speak of.

  And so the company of the Raven is finally reduced to three. Myself, an invalid, and a madman. I do not know what happened to Alex. Certainly I find it hard to imagine that he would have willingly abandoned me here without so much as a word of explanation, and I can only hope that he has not come to some harm.

  26th June (?), 1922

  Last night I dreamed of home.

  28th June (?), 1922

  Henry finally died today, a horrible affair – he was vomiting blood and at the end I gave him all the morphine left in the Doctor’s kit, which saw him through soon after. I’ve cleaned him up as best I can, but don’t have the strength on my own to get him to the forepeak, and so his cabin will have to suffice. I’ve laid him out in there, nailed the door shut and attached a brief inscription to it, written on a page torn from the logbook. I banged on Rourke’s cabin door but received no response. If not for the fact that the food we leave there for him continues to disappear, I’d suspect him dead also.

  After finishing with poor Henry, I took myself outside for a while and walked under the stars, some distance away from the ship. Despite a slight breeze from the south, the night was clear and the moon lit the grounded icebergs to the north, making them gleam like a distant, impossibly clean range of mountains. For a moment I was tempted to simply keep walking towards them, but that impulse soon passed, and I turned back instead towards our poor, beleaguered little ship.

  The Raven is now little more than a desperate wreck, propped absurdly in the air, her remaining yardarm hanging at an angle, banked in snow, and glistening beneath the cloak of ice which has formed on her steel plating. Before climbing back aboard, I walked slowly around her, sad despite her ugliness to witness her so bereft.

  Then I climbed back on board, chewed on a meal of tasteless biscuit, and in a few minutes I shall sleep.

  30th June (?), 1922

  Woke in the middle of the night – or day – to find somebody standing over me as I slept. The Ice Man was right there, in my cabin, motionless and staring. The dull glow of a hurricane lamp in the wardroom behind him threw his face into deep shadow and for several seconds; as the strangeness of the situation dawned upon me, breaking through into my sleep-addled state, I simply lay there, unable to do anything other than stare. After God knows how long, I regained my wits enough to try and sit upright but the man shoved me back down against my mattress and, exhibiting surprising strength, held me pinned there.

  He turned his head slightly, catching the light, and I tried to determine precisely which of my former shipmates had trapped me thus. I was startled to discover myself unable to do so; the man’s beard was heavy and wiry, his face blackened with soot, and what I could see of his hair, most of which was hidden below the rotting hood of his anorak, was dark, lank and greasy and appeared to be coming out in lumps. And his eyes – good lord, I don’t think I have ever seen such distance. He could have been any of us. Perhaps he was all of us.

  I am not certain how long it was that he held me there, but when I tried to speak, he shook his head sharply, indicating that I should remain silent. In mortal fear for my safety, I did so.

  Finally, he spoke. His breath was foul, his teeth rotted and blackening, and he said only two words, in a voice so thick and gravelly as to be almost unintelligible.

  ‘You’re free,’ he told me, then abruptly released me, backed out of the cabin, and rushed for the chartroom companionway. By the time I had rolled from my bunk and pulled on my parka, his footsteps had already thumped across the deck above my head and faded into the snow.

  Once up, everything in the wardroom seemed exactly as it had been when I’d gone to bed; Greg’s skua still stood upon the table, its wings spread forever in awkward grace and throwing grotesque shadows upon the deck. Beside it, Alex’s chess set, our final game still only half-finished, was laid precisely as we’d left it. The thawed tins I’d placed by the stove were still there and the woodpile and water pitcher undisturbed. It took me several moments to realise what was out of place – at the stern of the wardroom, Mr Rourke’s cabin door was ajar.

  Picking up the lantern, I crossed to it, finding the lock shattered as though by one hard blow. Inside, Edward Rourke lay slumped across his desk, his forehead stove completely in, and bleeding profusely upon his annotated chart which was still spread there.

  Perhaps it was the shock of the discovery, but for some minutes I stood there, quite numb, half-expecting Rourke to sit up and start on about his attempt for the pole once more. But, of course, it was quite obvious that Edward Rourke would never sit up again and that his dream of polar glory had finally died.

  I am writing this at the wardroom table. Outside, conditions are splendid; calm, crisp and still, with not a breath of breeze. On the southern horizon, the aurora is putting on a fine display and, to the east, I can just make out the barest hint of a glow in the sky, which I suspect is probably the dawn.

  I have put together what supplies I can carry. With some luck, I will find the others at the coast and we might muddle through until summer, and then who knows what?

  Either way, my journey aboard this ship is finished. Outside on the ice a perfect morning is upon us, and so I too shall step out, into white silence.

  * * *

  EPILOGUE

  Thus ends the journal of William Downes; the remaining pages in the book are all blank, and anything I could add now would be mere speculation.

  And thus my work is complete but for a few, final observations.

  It is often said that a visit to Antarctica, for those lucky enough to experience it, is
an addiction. Certainly I have met people who travel there again and again, south to the ice, unable to tear themselves from the starkness, the isolated beauty of the place. And certainly, almost as soon as we had broken from the icepack for the final time, I was filled with a powerful, primal longing to return, even before I’d fully left.

  But I’m not certain that this is addiction. For me, it is more like a haunting. Antarctica haunts you; it leaves you cowed, very aware of your own brief mortality, and absurdly grateful for it.

  Today I can still recall, years on and in perfect detail, the smell of ice, the taste of cold. When I close my eyes, the icescape of Newcombe Bay is as clear in my memory as it was the day it vanished over the southern horizon behind me.

  Though perhaps it is not just Antarctica which has haunted me, but Downes himself. His voice, his personality, his fate and his memory; so much humanity and futility contained all at once between those stained leather covers. This, as much as Antarctica herself, is what has kept me from my sleep these last long years.

  And that, I suppose, is my warning to you, who have joined me on this voyage, and to anyone who dares to venture south below 60 degrees to challenge the mother-continent; Do so, by all means – you will never visit a more pristine, more soul-stirring place, but when you return, prepare to be haunted.

  In the months it has taken me to set this story down, the seasons have changed. Outside my window the first frosts of winter have painted the early morning into crisp whiteness, and the sight recalls in me memories of an altogether different landscape. Gradually, over these last six months, the nightmares have eased somewhat. Not vanished – for I still wake occasionally, heaved frantically back into consciousness in the cold, small hours of the morning with the lingering, frozen indifference of the ice gripping my mind – but as I have re-travelled the path of William Downes here in these pages, these dreams of white silence have become mercifully fewer. Perhaps, finally, with the completion of this book and the freeing of his story, they will cease altogether. I can only hope.